A Small Stone Cannot Stop the Waves (2)

Meanwhile, in an abandoned temple in the northern Skadi Empire, Hatenzilla — Saintess of the Evil ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠God Cult — had spent hours bent over the ancient altar, making ready for a rite. It was to be the altar upon which the Holy Church's whore, defiled and fallen in due time, would be offered up as a sacrifice.

With the blood of a kid goat she drew out the profane sigils, then arranged the cursed relics in their places. She knew full well that this opportunity would deal the Holy Church a fatal blow from which there would be no recovering. And so this rite had to proceed perfectly, without a single misstep.

As she chanted the ominous words and touched flame to the final candle, a man stepped out of the darkness across the chamber.

"Quite the splendid altar. Splendid enough to serve as your own gravesite, Boss."

Carved across his grinning face was every manner of grotesque wound and blasphemous inscription.

"Hakthas. It has been some time since our last council."

The torturer's sleeves were soaked red, as though he had only just finished enjoying a diversion of his own. He let his gaze wander slowly around the chamber she had finished preparing.

"If you're going to this much trouble, I take it you're confident the mercenary you hired can actually abduct the Saintess."

"It seems you have little faith in my plan."

"A little." A cackling laugh echoed through the chamber — a light, dismissive sneer of a thing. "Not one of our own faithful, not a puppet bound under a curse — a mercenary who moves for nothing but coin. You think that makes sense?"

"It does."

"Those bastards can't be trusted. The moment things go sideways, they bolt. Like I said before, far better to worm the indoctrination into a few orphans and have them blow the whole thing sky-high?"

Hakthas, slyly pitching his own scheme yet again. The Saintess met the proposal with the same smile as ever.

"The one I hired is no mere mercenary. She is the Vice Master of the Black Hand."

"...What?"

Black Hand. At the name of the continent's greatest assassin guild, dropped so casually into the conversation, Hakthas went rigid for an instant.

"Th-that's... the real thing?"

"Vice Master Shahal. She has agreed to the contract."

"...You absolute madwoman, Hatenzilla." He laughed again — but this time it was no sneer. It was pure, unguarded admiration. "How on earth did you land someone that big? To so much as work alongside them a single time, you'd normally wait the better part of five years."

In the underworld, the Black Hand was treated as something close to legend. Terrifying professionals who, once a contract was secured, would see any mark through to the end — so long as they stood short of a nation's king. But this time the target was the Saintess herself, a figure every bit as weighty as a king. Which meant a job the Black Hand would refuse no matter what came ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of it.

"Wasn't a Saintess of the Holy Church the sort of target they'd turn away even for a king's ransom?"

"It was simple. More money than a king's ransom, a cordial conversation, and..." She held her breath for a moment, then smiled. "...I agreed to give her the one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠piece of information she desired most."

"Hm? Information? What information?"

"My, my, Hakthas. A gentleman should not pry so greedily into a lady's secrets. Even I am entitled to one or two."

From that seamless smile, Hakthas understood she would never breathe a word of what the information was.

If it was information worth the Vice Master of the Black Hand accepting a job like abducting a Saintess... What on earth could it be? When no amount of wracking his brain produced so much as a guess, he gave up on the spot.

"Ah, forget it. Forget it. I'll hear it later, once the Saintess gets here."

With the Black Hand on the job, the abduction was as good as accomplished already. It would be no great loss to hear the secret after this grand design had run its course.

"My, what a wise man you've become."

Even at the barb slipped so neatly into her words, he paid it no mind and stretched. "While that monster takes care of the work for us, all that's left is to wait, then. My whole body aches half to madness wanting to hear that bitch Erzena scream."

"Who can say. Word has it that whore belts out her screams before the crowds every single morning." Her fingers moved as though strumming an invisible guitar. "'Rock Spirit,' or some such thing."

"What in the blazes is that?" Hakthas's face twisted at the sight. "I'm talking about the screams wrung out by agony and terror, not that."

"Fufufu, I know. Steady yourself and lay out your blades and hooks. Your craft will be needed before long."

We must carve the inscriptions into the Saintess's body as well, you see, Hatenzilla added. It seemed a request to his considerable liking; the torturer nodded and turned his eyes toward the altar.

"I look forward to it."

Just then, a cultist flung the door open without so much as a knock.

"L-Lady Hatenzilla! Lord Hakthas! Urgent news!"

"...I do believe I ordered no one to enter this place unbidden."

"Forgive me! But this is news you must both hear!"

The two exchanged a glance. If a lowest-ranking cultist had worked up the nerve to speak this far, then the news surely concerned the Holy Church.

"Much faster than expected."

"Indeed. I'd assumed it would take four more days at least." To think they had pushed that overwhelming multitude through in a mere two days. Inwardly marveling at the Crossline Kingdom's administrative speed, Hatenzilla said, "Speak."

And the cultist shrieked, his face drained bone-white:

"The pilgrimage — the pilgrimage has been denied entry!"

For the first time in years, the oily grin drained from Hakthas's face. Hatenzilla, for the first time in her life, misstepped and staggered — and the relics she had arranged with such painstaking precision came clattering down to the floor.

"Wh-what... what did you say?"

"I... beg your pardon?"

Scarcely recovering herself, she screamed: "Th-then where is the pilgrimage right now!?"

The plains adjoining the border lay in dead silence. Hundreds of tents and banners rippled in the wind, and beyond them there was no sound at all. Though it was early morning, not a single soul stepped out to breathe the open air. Not the Saintess — and not even Mohaim himself.

Inside the empty tent, Mohaim quietly set about sharpening his sword on a whetstone. Skreeee-grik. He dragged the blade at a deliberate angle, and the skin-crawling shriek rolled through the canvas, but he paid it no mind, repeating the motion again and again. And every time that sound gnawed at his ears, the events of two days past rose before his eyes.

"Welcome to the Crossline Kingdom, honored pilgrims!"

This great crusade was, beyond any doubt, the will of the Lord God Himself — a thing that simply had to come to pass. A holy war to erase the Evil God Cult from the face of the world. It was meant to proceed perfectly, without a single obstruction. With the entirety of the First Paladin Order and the Saintess beside it, the thought of failure had never once crossed his mind. Even should some obstacle bar the way, they were to smash through it and march stubbornly onward.

"...Therefore, this officer's judgment is as follows."

Who would dare obstruct the Holy Church? They boasted the greatest following on the continent — a host that served the Creator Himself. Even veiled beneath the mantle of pilgrimage, who was there to doubt it? This war was certain to be waged, and certain to end in victory. Certain, without fail.

"I deny entry to the pilgrimage — no, to your crusading army."

And yet someone had dared to bar their way.

"...Central Officer Nathan Kell."

Krr-krak! Sparks burst from the blade. He had borne down too hard, and in a flash of light before his eyes, the whetstone split clean in two.

"Damn it all." Even the mental discipline he practiced daily refused to go right. With a short curse unlike himself, he flung the halved stone aside.

Whereupon the Pope's crystal orb, which had watched in silence from nearby for some time, revealed itself.

"It seems this time it is I who has interrupted your rest."

"Your Holiness!" Mohaim started violently and dropped at once to one knee. "Forgive me. I did not even realize Your Holiness had woken the orb—"

"It's quite all right. The fault is mine for making no sound of my own. Take your seat."

"...Then, with your leave, I shall."

He set the sword back on its rack, drew a chair over, and sat before the orb. The Pope studied him for a long while before he spoke.

"You look worn through with worry, Mohaim."

"I beg forgiveness for failing to live up to Your Holiness's expectations."

"Nonsense. How could that ever be your fault?" There was no need to say over what — both of them knew exactly whom he meant. "Even I never dreamed the Central Officer would hand down such a ruling."

Mohaim's gaze drifted to the desk. Stacked there, high as a mountain, were documents stamped with a stark ENTRY DENIED. Choking down the urge to tear them to ribbons then and there, he muttered:

"The Saintess was right."

"Hm?"

"That man is a heretic beyond all doubt. How dare he refuse Your Holiness's request! Even after you personally guaranteed him reward and safe passage!"

"Hahaha. Now even you say such things."

The Pope laughed heartily, then turned the subject — if only to let the man's fury cool.

"Come to think of it, we have heard nothing at all from Erzena. Is something the matter, perhaps?"

"I... we could not say ourselves, Your Holiness. The Saintess has already missed her morning performance two days running."

"Hm. Now that is unexpected."

And indeed, even Mohaim had not foreseen this. Ever since the Pope had reprimanded her, Erzena had gone markedly quiet. No — she had shut herself away in her tent altogether, sunk in thought, without stepping out even once. Even when the Central Officer declared his 'entry denial,' she had not come forward; she had only withdrawn, slipping quietly back into her own tent. And whenever Mohaim went to her, the whole of the answer he received was, 'I'm all right. I'd just like a little time alone.'

At that report, the Pope nodded as though he understood.

"A girl her age has any number of troubles on her mind. Give her a little time. Soon enough she will return to being the Erzena we know."

"I pray she returns quickly. The Saintess as she is now is... unfamiliar to me."

"And as for you — do not let your temper run so hot again. The other day nearly ended in disaster, did it not?"

The knight-commander knew at once which moment Escabar meant.

"...Those bastards knew the pilgrimage was coming. They had the border guard stationed on the front line all along."

The border guard. Ancient golems, each towering past three meters. The instant the Central Officer declared ENTRY DENIED, the fury of the pilgrims and paladins had been without end. And the moment one hotheaded paladin drew his sword, the figures that had stood like statues atop the ramparts began to move.

Twenty-eight golems, every one of them three meters tall, drawing five-meter greatswords in perfect unison and squaring off against the Paladin Order — the sight was enough to make even Mohaim tense, if only for a breath.

He was not afraid to fight them. Mana-driven things, after all — hurl them against weapons anointed with holy blessing and their mana would scatter in moments, leaving them shattered on the ground. But a clash at a border weighed every bit as heavy as open war. The instant a single drop of blood was shed there, the crusade would be the least of their worries; they might well have found themselves at war with the Crossline Kingdom itself. And so, with a thousand fires boiling in his chest, Mohaim had had no choice but to calm the Paladin Order and the pilgrims alike.

"They meant to bind our feet here, and if we resisted, to grind us down beneath the border guard. That was their design all along, was it not?" He spoke as though chewing on gravel. "If this is not the work of heretics, then what is it?! The cowardice — how dare they—"

"Mohaim. Every plan under heaven is certain to meet its obstacles. If all the world's affairs ran perfectly, where would saints and heroes come from?" Yet the Pope answered with perfect ease, as if none of it amounted to very much at all. "One must not answer a stern refusal with sternness. That would only make matters worse."

"Are you not angered, Your Holiness? An outrage fit to enrage gods and men has been committed — the Lord God's will defied to His very face!"

"The harder we press, the more desperately they will resist. No... we must flow around it."

Mohaim held his silence. Flow around it how, exactly? The refusal had already been handed down; the border's gate would never open again.

Reading the look on his face, Escabar spoke.

"The Central Officer is but a small stone. Unremarkable, and yet not so easily broken, that young man. I find that I rather like him. Though whether he is a heretic, I do not yet know."

"Your Holiness!"

"But that, of course, applies only so long as he stands with us."

Staying Mohaim's hand as he rose to interject, the Pope went on.

"I have just now finished speaking with the Queen Consort of the Crossline Kingdom. I am to personally bestow a blessing upon her before long, it seems. She will be contacting the Ministry of Foreign Affairs very shortly."

"Then what you mean is..."

"It means there is no further cause for worry. I give you my word: the border will open again within days."

The knight-commander sprang up from his seat and bowed low.

"Thank you, Your Holiness! We shall see the Lord God's will accomplished — this I swear!"

"Two days of heartache — you have endured much. It grieves me to see that gaunt face of yours, my friend."

Meet the hard with the soft. The Pope had executed that principle to perfection. Rather than clash with the obstacle head-on, he had simply reached past it — touched someone higher up — and made the problem itself as though it had never existed.

"Truth be told, I had no wish to make such a spectacle of it, but there was no helping it. This once, I had no choice but to exert my own strength."

"It would all have gone far smoother had the Central Officer simply cooperated."

"A genuine pity. Had he been a man like Gerard — capable, yet knowing when to turn a blind eye — how much finer it would have been."

Fair words. The Central Officer's eye was keen enough to piece together the pilgrimage's true purpose from a handful of scattered clues. And yet he seemed not to know when his convictions were to be held fast, and when to be bent. Unlike Gerard Monarch, the former chief of all the border's affairs. Why that man had been executed, the two of them knew very well.

Collusion with the criminal syndicates, and the abetting of contraband and unlawful crossings.

He had been a corrupt man — yet by that very token, the Church too had been free to carry out any number of missions in secret, without a breath of suspicion. A man who would swing the border wide open for a properly weighted purse.

"In every way, a man of a different stripe from that Nathan Kell. Convenient to make use of, though."

He shrugged.

"At the very least, the truth of the crusade remains buried. We should count ourselves fortunate. Trivial rumors are forgotten soon enough."

"And if... if the Central Officer were to expose the crusade, what then?"

When Mohaim finally gave voice to the fear that had gnawed at him most, a light laugh was all that came back.

"My word, or an immigration officer's. Which of them do you imagine the world will believe with the greater sincerity?"

The question needed no answer at all. That settled it.

The Pope waved a weary hand.

"Now then, go and rest. I have talked far too long."

"I shall treasure Your Holiness's grace all the more deeply."

But just as Mohaim reached to close the orb's connection—

"Ah — one thing more before you go. With you, I can afford to be a little honest." Escabar opened his mouth again.

"Honest... in what way, Your Holiness?"

The humor drained from his face. The kindly, wrinkled countenance was gone.

"That every choice exacts its price — that young man is about to learn it very well indeed."

"...Your Holiness, what do you mean by that?"

"The Central Officer's insult to the Pope and the Holy Church at the border has been formally protested. Through proper diplomatic procedure."

Mohaim understood at once what he meant. When an immigration officer of the Crossline Kingdom committed a grave error, there was but one punishment. Escabar III. The face of the man who had been a heresy inquisitor before he was ever Pope settled back into what it had once been.

"The Central Officer will be executed the moment we pass through the Crossline Kingdom. In ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠accordance with the very discipline he loves so dearly."

One who turned against the Church was not to be suffered to exist. Whatever the reason. However light the weight of that existence.

A small stone can never stop the waves. Never again.